a reflective and futile guide to life as an expat in england. formerly italy. formerly formerly korea.
but who really gives a shit anyway. are you still reading this? hello?

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

A Taste of Naples

(That was just a cheap tactic to capture your attention).

I recently took the chance to accompany Giulio to Naples for a conference, and to cultivate what I refer to as my human version of a prostomium. Basically what I mean is that for four days I wedged myself into the cracks of the city and like an earthworm in its usual fashion, ate my way through the very burrows I sought to create. The world was my oyster and no food could be my obstacle.

So, here's the Taste of Naples:

Baba. The apple of the Napolitano's eye. A yeast-based cake soaked in so much rum it would have gotten you drunk had you not just eaten enough food to feed a family of three for two weeks. And though you don't find yourself tipsy per se, you may find yourself teetering on the sobering line that delicately separates insulin resistant from not.

Pizza Margherita. Naples is ostensibly the birthplace of this handsome little devil:

Pastiera. Don't let this cute little torta fool you, bizza is DENSE! prolly weighs more than a small human:

Pasticce. May the (crispy on the outside, warm ricotta on the inside) Sfogliatelle have mercy on your pathetically easily delighted soul:

Coffee. I dunno, I asked for one and this is what came out:

Pasta. Period.

I sincerely have no idea what this is but I ate it anyway:

Struffoli. The holiday delight of Naples, so festive, how could I resist?

(Struffoli after): Actually one of the most horrible things I've ever eaten, and the only thing I left unfinished.

More PIZZA.Of course, how could we miss an opportunity to indulge at Da Michele? Famously regarded as the best pizza in the whole damn world, (and as I realized later, also the location of the triumphant pizza scene in the film Eat Pray Love.)

Let me just give you a little anecdote to highlight how I truly am the modern day Julia Roberts. The story starts like this: WE WAITED IN LINE FOR TWO AND A HALF WRETCHED HOURS.

At hour 1.5, we found ourselves in such a desperate state of delirious hunger that I went into ninja mode, rounded the corner, stormed the adjacent pizzeria, and demanded a to-go margherita for me and my friends that we then ate in line while waiting for our main course. I for one am not afraid to admit that I ascribe unabashed scorn to the notion of "delayed gratification".

And then with a little more patience we made it. Pants unbuttoned, happy girl.